The Love of Monsieur/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
THE ESCAPE
They walked quickly along under a wall, keeping in the shadow. Vigot received his orders and went forward alone. When last they saw him he was swaggering and staggering by turns up to the mercer’s, where he began pounding lustily upon the door for admittance. Trice and Quinn Mornay despatched by a side street to approach the tavern from another direction.
At the Fleece there was no unusual sign. From an open window came the rattle of dice, the clink of the counters, and the laughter of men. The night being still young, many people were passing to and fro upon the streets, and Mornay and Cornbury, wrapped in their cloaks, looking neither to the right nor left, pushed open the door at the front and walked boldly into the room. Several drinkers lounged upon the benches, and there was a game of basset in the corner, but the players were so intent that they had no eyes for the new arrivals. Cornbury drummed loudly upon the floor with his foot, and one of the fellows, a pigeon-breasted ensign in a dragoon regiment, cast a loser’s curse over his shoulder, but failed to recognize them. They ordered a drink and the room on the second floor at the head of the stairway.
Mornay’s reasons for this were obvious. He wanted a narrow passage, where more than two men would be at a disadvantage, and where all opportunity for outside interference would be obviated. The host himself brought their lights and bottles. When he saw that it was Monsieur Mornay who was his guest, he started back in amazement.
“Monsieur!” he cried. “You? I thought—”
“Sh— Yes, it is I. But keep your tongue, Papworth. Is Captain Ferrers here?”
“No, sir. Two notes have arrived for him, but—”
Mornay glanced significantly at the Irishman.
“You think he will come?”
“I should be sure of it, sir.”
“Very good. When he comes tell him Captain Cornbury and I are awaiting him.”
“But, sir, if you’ll pardon me, the Fleece Tavern is no place for you, sir. There’s been constables watching for you all yesterday and to-day.”
Mornay laughed a little to himself.
“’Tis plain I’m too popular. Listen, Papworth. I did you a good turn with the King when Captain Lyall was killed in your garden. Now you can return me the compliment.”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
“I’ll have no refusal.”
The man rubbed his chin dubiously while Cornbury told him their plans. When the Irishman had finished, Mornay slipped a handful of coins into his palm, which worked a transformation in his point of view.
“I’ll do what I can, monsieur,” he said, jingling the money. “But if there’s to be fighting, the Fleece will lose its good repute forever.” Mornay and Cornbury both laughed at the long face and hollow note of virtuous regretfulness and resignation in his voice.
“Ochone! If there has been a duel in yer garden once in forty years, I’d never be the man to suspect it,” said the Irishman. The landlord raised a deprecating hand and disappeared.
“The garden?” growled Mornay. “I hope it may not be necessary to carry this matter there.” “But have ye thought? He may not come up to yer room?”
“He must—”
There was a cautious knock at the door, and Vigot entered, despair and distress written upon his features.
“Monsieur! Ill news! There was no room to let at the mercer’s. To-morrow is market-day, and the house is full to the garret. He would not let me even inside the door.”
“Tonnerre de Dieu!”
“And worse yet, monsieur—this place is watched. A number of black, silent figures are regarding it from the shadows—”
“Ye have read the man aright, Mornay,” said Cornbury.
“Mille diables! We must go by the roof. It is our only chance. Listen, Vigot. Do you go up those stairs and out upon the leads. Curse the fellow! if you cannot get into his house at the bottom you must get in at the top.”
Vigot was off again as the landlord entered.
“Monsieur Mornay, Captain Ferrers awaits you below.”
A quick glance passed between the two men. Mornay paused a moment before replying.
“Tell him, Papworth,” he said, coolly, “that Monsieur Mornay has a quiet room upstairs where matters can be privately discussed. I will await him here.”
The man departed.
Cornbury drained his bowl.
“The man’s an arrant coward. Ten guineas that he doesn’t come. Why, monsieur, he couldn’t have entrapped us better himself. Ye’ve made the bait too tempting. He’ll smell a rat.”
“Pouf! Cornbury, he has it all his own way. Twenty guineas that he comes.”
Cornbury did not answer; he was bending towards the door, his mouth and eyes agape, as though to make his hearing better. But only the clatter of the game and the sound of the coarsened voices of the players came up the dimly lighted stairway. Upon the coming of this man hung Mornay’s only chance for success.
Five minutes they waited in silence, but at last there was a sound of footsteps upon the stairs, and in a moment Captain Ferrers and Mr. Wynne stood before them. The exuberance and confidence of Captain Ferrers’s smile found no echo in the face of Wynne, who looked sullenly and suspiciously at Cornbury and the Frenchman, as though the adventure were little to his liking. Mornay arose from his bench with great politeness, the perfection of courtesy and good-will, and waved Captain Ferrers to a seat. Cornbury sat puffing volumes of smoke, with an appearance of great contentment and unconcern.
Captain Ferrers was clearly taken off his guard, and his smile became the broader. He had at first thought Monsieur Mornay’s promise to come to the Fleece a mere French flippancy. Surely, after what had happened he could expect no clemency from Ferrers. Monsieur Mornay would have been flattered had he known how much of Captain Ferrers’s thoughts he had occupied during the last few hours. The Frenchman’s demeanor in the house of Mistress Clerke, his earnestness, his self-confidence, his assurance and poise, outdid anything that Ferrers remembered of that presumptuous person. A man with one leg in the grave or a lifetime of imprisonment staring him in the face would only play such a part because of one or two circumstances: he was using a desperate resort to gain some great end—perhaps to influence Mistress Barbara for clemency in the case of the death of Sir Henry Heywood; or else he was the real heir of the estate which Mistress Barbara was enjoying. To tell the truth, Ferrers did not care what he was. If the Frenchman came to the Fleece Tavern, he would be in the Tower by midnight. The prison would know no distinctions. He hated this man as one hates another to whom he is under obligations and who has done him a great injury. And if he was the real heir, come to dispossess Mistress Barbara and balk him in a marriage that meant a fortune beyond the wildest dreams, the worse for him. He should suffer for it!
All of these things passed again somewhat heavily through his mind. The air of unconcern and assurance which he met in the faces of both Mornay and the Irishman disarmed him. He thought how easy it had been to gain his ends, and comfortably fingered the whistle in his pocket with which he should presently call in his hounds upon his enemy. Nor would his pistols be required. If he had wished he could have sent his constables up from below to take these men in the trap they had made for themselves. But he enjoyed the situation. It was as easy as a game of quinze with the mirror behind your opponent’s back.
“Monsieur Ferraire,” began Mornay, pleasantly, “I am meeting you to-night at great risk of my life. I thank you that you have kept my plans and this rendezvous a secret.”
Ferrers’s small eyes blinked as though they had been liberally peppered, but the smile did not disappear.
“What I have to say is to your great advantage. If after I am through you still wish to meet me, I shall be at your service below in the garden, or elsewhere. Will you sit down?”
The Captain’s lip twitched a little and his fingers left the whistle and moved to a chair-back.
It was apparent that Mornay’s mind was a thousand miles from all thought of distrust or suspicion. He was as guileless as a child. Cornbury had filled another pipe and crossed his legs.
“It will be useless to sit or talk, monsieur,” said Ferrers, coldly. “I have brought Mr. Wynne with an object which cannot be mistaken. If you are agreeable, Mr. Wynne will talk with Captain Cornbury as to the arrangements.” He folded his arms and walked to the window with an air of rounding off a conversation.
Mornay arose from his seat and walked around the table to the side nearest the door.
“You must hear me, monsieur,” he said, calmly. “I offer you friendship and a proposition which cannot but be to your advantage.” Ferrers had turned, but his head shook in refusal.
“There can be but one proposition between us, Mornay.”
Mornay shrugged his shoulders.
“Captain Cornbury,” he said, “will you have the kindness to arrange with Monsieur de Wynne?”
He stopped, bit his lip a moment, then turned to Ferrers once more. “I entreat you to listen to me. I have told you that I was the Vicomte de Bresac. No, it is no jest. I am René d’Añasco. Eh bien. One day I shall prove it. What I ask is only to save a little time.”
He moved nearer to the Englishman, until he could have touched him with his outstretched arm.
“Listen, monsieur. If you will but give me the papers—”
There was a motion—if ever so slight—of the fingers of Ferrers’s right hand. Only Mornay saw it. But it was enough. He sprang forward upon the man, and Ferrers’s whistle never reached his lips. In his wish to give the alarm he did not attempt to draw his fire-arm until Mornay’s hands and arms had pinioned him like a vise. All the fury of a life of longing was in that grasp. It seemed as though the years of sweat and privation had wrought upon his will and energy for this particular moment. He bore the Englishman back until his head struck the wall, and they came to the floor together. At the first sign of trouble, Wynne had started for the door, but Cornbury was there ahead of him. Not until then had there been a word spoken, a cry uttered; but now, almost at the same instant that Mornay and Ferrers crashed to the floor, Wynne set up a loud cry, which resounded down the corridor and stairs. In a moment there was a sound of tumbling furniture, and the cries of men seemed to come from every part of the building. But Vigot and his two fellows from above were first upon the landing, and set so vigorously upon the men mounting the stairs that their ascent was halted and they were thrown back in confusion.
In the meanwhile the struggle between Mornay and Ferrers continued. The Englishman had found his voice, and between his cries and curses and the clashing of the steel of Cornbury and Wynne the room was now a very bedlam of sound. Either the blow of his head at the wall or the sudden fury of Mornay’s assault had given the Frenchman the advantage, for Ferrers lay prone upon the floor, and, though he shouted and struggled, both of his wrists were held helpless in one of Mornay’s sinewy hands.
Suddenly Monsieur Mornay sprang away from the Englishman and to his feet, waving in his hands a packet of papers. He rushed past Cornbury and Wynne to the table, his eyes gleaming with excitement. With a fascination which made him oblivious to everything but his one overmastering passion, he tore the cover from the packet and examined the papers in the glare of the candles. In one of them he saw the name D’Añasco. It was enough.
None but a desperate man would have done so foolhardy a thing at such a time. Captain Ferrers was not slow to take advantage of his opportunity. He struggled painfully to his knee, and, drawing his pistol, took a careful aim and fired at the Frenchman. Mornay’s wig twitched and fell off among the candles. He staggered forward and dropped like a drunken man, his elbows on the table. Ferrers reached his feet, and, drawing his sword, made for the door. But Mornay was only stunned.
“Vigot! Vigot!” he shouted, rising. “Prenez garde, Vigot!”
But before Vigot could turn, Captain Ferrers had rushed out and thrust the unfortunate servant through the back. As Mornay saw Vigot go down he sprang after the Englishman into the corridor. Ferrers had set upon one of the fellows in the passageway at the same time that another and more determined attack was made from below. For a moment it seemed as though the constables had gained the landing. They would have done so had not Mornay, with an incomparable swiftness, engaged Ferrers and driven him step by step to the stairs, where at last he fell back and down into the arms of the men below. At this moment Cornbury, having disabled Wynne, came running to Mornay’s assistance with two heavy benches, which were thrown down the stairs into the thick of the men below, so that they fell back, groaning and bruised, to the foot of the stairway. Then, without the pause of a moment, Mornay dashed out the lights, and, carrying Vigot, ordered a retreat up the second flight of steps.
Vigot had a mortal wound and was even then at the point of death.
“Monsieur,” he said, faintly, “c’est fini! Laissez-moi!”
There were some heavy chests of drawers in the corridor above, and Mornay directed that these be piled for a barricade. The stairway was here very narrow and but one man could come up at a time. So two chests were balanced on the incline of the stairs and two more were ready at the top to replace the others. When this was done, Mornay sent Quinn and Trice up to the next floor to gain the roof and find a way to the street.
When they were gone, Mornay leaned over the dying man upon the floor.
“My poor Vigot,” he said.
“Laissez-moi, monsieur,” whispered Vigot. “C’est fini. They cannot hurt me. Over the roof a window is open into the garret of the mercer’s. Go, but quickly, monsieur—quickly.”
Mornay tried to lift him, but a deep groan broke from his breast.
“Non, monsieur, non.”
Mornay and Cornbury lifted him, and, placing him on a bed in one of the rooms, quietly closed the door.
By this time the men below had reached the landing. Mornay had one advantage. While the movements of the figures below were plainly to be seen, there was no light above, and the Frenchman knew that the constables could not tell whether his party were one or six. It was plain that they did not relish an attack on the dark stairway. If they had not been able to gain the landing below, how could they expect to fare better here? They caught a glimpse of the dim outline of the chests of the barricade, but beyond that all was black and forbidding.
Mornay and Cornbury only waited long enough to give the fellows above a chance to get over the roof, when they, too, quickly followed. As they crawled out of the window they heard the voice of Ferrers cursing the men for laggards, and at last a clatter of feet and the fall of one of the chests down the stairs.
They made their way stealthily but quickly across the leads to the dormer-window of the mercer’s shop, where they saw Trice beckoning. With a last backward glance they stole into the room. Its inmate was sitting upright in bed. Quinn was binding and gagging him with a kerchief and a sheet. They shut the window and took the key from the door, and passing into the hallway, locked their man in his room. It was none too soon, for a sound of shouts above announced that their escape was discovered. Upon this Cornbury threw discretion to the winds, and with drawn sword went down the stairs three steps at a time. The rickety stairs swayed and groaned under this noisy invasion, doors opened, and nightcapped heads with frightened faces peered from narrow doorways. There was a lantern burning in a sconce upon the wall. This Mornay seized as he passed. At the head of the first flight the mercer came out. But Cornbury stuck him in the leg with the point of his sword, and, seizing him by the back of the neck, pushed and dragged him down the stairs.
“The way out, ye vermin!” he said. “Quick! No. Not the front—the back door.”
The man was sallow with terror.
“The b-back door?” he chattered. “There is no back door.”
“A window, then,” jerked out Cornbury. “Quick!” There was a warning prod of the sword. The man cried out, but staggered through the mercer’s shop into a passage. Mornay and Cornbury thrust ahead of him.
“Which way?” they cried, in unison.
He indicated a window. When it was opened they saw it was not six feet from the ground.
By this time the whole neighborhood was aroused, and cries and shouts resounded in all quarters. Mornay had put the light out, and, pausing not a moment, stepped over the sill and let himself down into a kind of roofed alley or court which ran between the rear portions of the buildings. While Mornay covered the landlord to keep him silent, Cornbury and the others quickly followed. Without waiting a moment, the four men gathered themselves into a compact body and dashed down the alley as fast as they could run. It was a case now for speed and stout blows. There was a turn in the alley before it reached the street. It was on rounding this that they came full into the midst of a party of men who were running in to meet them. The surprise was mutual. All the commotion had been on the roof and in the main street, and there was so much noise that the constables had not even heard the footfalls around the corner. But Mornay’s men had the advantage of being on the offensive. There was a hurried discharge of firearms, and a shout broke from Bill Quinn, but he kept on running. Cornbury fired his pistol at one man and then threw the weapon full at another who cut at him with a pike. In a moment they were through and in the street. A scattering of shots sent the dust and stones flying from a wall beside them, but the moon was gone and aim was uncertain. The shouting had increased and the sound of footfalls was just behind.
“Which way?” said Mornay.
“Straight ahead,” replied Cornbury. “To the river afterwards. Our chances with a boat are best.”
They turned into a dark street, and Trice, who was slender and nimble-footed, led the way into the darkness with the speed of a deer. He wound in and out of alleys and narrow streets where the shadows were deeper, closely followed by Mornay and Cornbury. The pace was so rapid that Quinn was nearly spent. Seeing that if he were not heartened he would be taken, Mornay slackened and came back beside him. As he glanced around he saw that two men were approaching rapidly not a hundred yards away.
“There’s nothing for it,” panted Cornbury. “If I had a pistol I could wing the man in front.” Mornay drew his own from his pocket and handed it to him. Cornbury leaned against a wall and carefully fired. With a shout the man clapped his hand to his leg. He hobbled a few paces, and then fell head over heels into the gutter. With singular discretion the other man slackened his speed and stopped to await his fellows, who were coming up in a body not far behind.
Tom Trice had disappeared, but the river was not far distant. Cornbury saw the shimmer of it and said so to poor Quinn. This plucked up his courage, and with a hand at either arm he managed to make so good a progress that they had crossed the wide docks and tumbled into a boat before the first of their pursuers had emerged from the darkness. Quinn fell like a gasping fish under the thwarts, but Cornbury and Mornay pulled at the oars with such vigor that before a single black figure appeared upon the coping of the dock they had put fifty feet of water between themselves and the shore. There was a splash of light—and another—and the bullets spat viciously around them. But they kept on pulling, and made the lee of a barge not far away in safety. When they heard the constables clatter down into one of the boats, they took off their doublets and pulled for their lives. The tide was running out, and they shot the bridge like an arrow, but they could see the black mass of the boat of their pursuers as it stole, like some huge black bug, from the inky reflection into the gray of the open water. There was a patch of light under the bows, and the frequent glimmer of the wind-swept sky upon the oars was far too rapid and steady for their comfort. A fellow stood up in the stern, giving the word for the oarsmen, and, hard as the fugitives pulled, the boat gained steadily upon them. Bill Quinn was useless, and, even had he been able to row, there were only two pairs of oars. So they set him to loading the pistols, while they cast their eyes over their shoulders in search of a place of refuge. They knew if they made immediately for the shore they would fall too probably into the hands of the watch, for the streets here were wider and there were fewer places for concealment than in the thickly settled part of the city which they had left. Their course was set directly across the bows of a large vessel getting under way. The anchor had clanked up to the bows, and there was a creak of halyard and sheet-block as her canvases took the wind, a clamor of hoarse orders mingled with oaths and the sound of maudlin singing. But the boat of the constables was every moment splashing nearer and nearer, and Mornay, seeing escape by this means impossible, determined to lay aboard the ship and take his chances. Accordingly they stopped rowing and waited until the vessel should gather way enough to come up with them. When the black boat-load of men saw this they gave a cheer, for they thought themselves certain of their game. For answer there was a volley from three pistols, which sent one man into the bottom of the boat, so that the oars upon one side caught so badly in the water that the boat slewed around from her course and lost her way in the water.
At the sound of the shots a dozen heads appeared in the bows of the ship, which was coming up rapidly.
“What ho, there!” yelled a heavy voice. “Out o’ the way, or I’ll run ye down!”
Cornbury and Quinn arose to their feet, but Mornay sat at his oars, keeping the boat broadside to the approaching vessel.
“Jump before she strikes, man—the fore-chains and spritsail-rigging.”
The huge fabric loomed like a pall upon the sky, and they could see two long lines of foam springing away from the forefoot, which was coming nearer—nearer.
“Look alive there!” shouted the gruff voice again.
There was a grinding crash as Cornbury and Quinn sprang for the rigging. Quinn struck his head upon a steel stay, and had not the strength to haul himself clear of the water. With a cry he fell back into the submerged boat. Mornay waited a moment too long, and the vessel struck him fairly in the body. He, too, fell back into the water, but as he was tossed aside he fell as by a miracle into the friendly arms of the anchor, which, not having been hauled clear, dragged just at the surface of the water. With an effort he pulled himself up, and at last climbed upon the stock, and so to the deck unharmed.
A cluster of dark faces surrounded him, and a short, broad man, with a black beard and rings in his ears, thrust his way through. He looked at the shivering and dripping figures before him with a laugh.
“Soho! Soho! Just in the very nick of the hoccasion, my bullies. ’Ere be three beauties. Ha! ha! Jail-birds at a guinea a ’ead!”
There was a sound of cries and the clatter of oars; but the vessel was moving rapidly through the water, and the constables were rapidly left astern.
“In the King’s name,” shouted the voice of Captain Ferrers, “let me aboard!”
The man with the black beard ran aft and leaned over the rail towards the boat which was struggling in the water.
“An’ who might you be!” he roared.
“I represent the law,” cried Ferrers, and his voice seemed dimmer in the distance. “These men are officers of the King, to arrest—” The remainder of the sentence was caught in the winds and blown away.
The black-bearded man slapped his leg. “The law! The law!” he shouted. Then he made a trumpet of his hands to make his meaning clear, and roared, “Go to ’ell!” He clapped his hand to his thigh and laughed immoderately.
Monsieur Mornay, who had been looking aft over the bulwarks, saw the figure of Ferrers stand up in the stern-sheets and shake his fist at the vessel. Then the boat pulled around to the half-sunken craft which the fugitives had abandoned. All in dark shadow they saw Quinn pulled out of the water by the constables, and then the figures leaned over again and lifted something out of the water and passed it to the figure in the stern.
The Frenchman took Cornbury wildly by the arm.
“God, God!” he cried. “My doublet! The papers were in my doublet!” He put a hand upon the rail and would have jumped into the water if Cornbury had not seized him and held him until the fit was past.